Seasonal change, clocks spring forward, it is time for Order. A wild gale is brewing... He's her force of nature. Is it a forecast, or foreplay?
She opened the screen door, padded barefoot out on to the wooden porch. A sudden gust of wind blew loose strands of hair around her face as she carried the heavy basket of wet laundry down three steps to the grass. She shivered in the chilly breeze, wearing only a white crocheted crop top and an unbuttoned pair of pale blue jeans worn low on swerving hips, baring her slightly rounded paunch. She set down the basket next to the clothesline, picked up one large white sheet, fingers nimbly pressing corners together evenly, willowy bronzed arms reaching high upward, grasping wooden clothespins as fierce winter wind swept cold wet cotton against her flesh -- she gasped, quickly snapping pins closed, finally jumped away from the whipping material in triumph. One sheet hung up. She bent over at the waist -- reached for another...
He watched from the window, her lithe body wrestling with nature as she worked, determined to hang the bedding to dry outside in spite of the season. It was fresher, smelled cleaner, she said. He simply enjoyed the view -- his slut toiling in the backyard, hanging laundry, with her full belly exposed, the loose dungarees slipping farther down each time she bent over and reached upward. Late morning sun cast glints of red and gold in her hair, pulled up in a high ponytail, except those that fell around her unblemished face in disarray. The crocheted top tied around her neck and back, its see-through knit triangles cradling creamy flesh puffs with rosy, erect nipples left little to the imagination. She was a sexy, irresistible sight, so innocently losing her clothes while hanging laundry.
His left hand instinctively grasped his aching balls, thinking about squirting His seed on her cool, bare cheeks -- all of them.
Four ten-foot lengths of vinyl-coated line were stretched between two stable cedar T-bar posts, nine inches between each to give enough air space for drying. Now she struggled with heavy wet cotton linens, while sheets already on the line whisked back and forth, beating against her thighs and dragging the jeans past curved hips, revealing a hint of a dimple just below the small of her back. The wind was relentless, howling through the trees, the sound of flapping sheets drowning out everything else. She was almost finished now, white sheets waving and fluttering across two full lines -- she bent down, gripped the end of a pillow case, but as she angled upward, her halter tie caught on the wicker basket. Before she could recover the top from its snare, a gust of wind pulled it completely off, leaving her full and convex fruits barren, their stems taut and puckered from the cold assault -- she twisted at the waist and reached up to hang the pillowcase, eager to escape the force of nature.
It was the slam of the screen door that she heard, echoing through the trees, reverberating in the wind. She glanced down at the basket, not quite empty, crossed her arms, rubbing them briskly, seeking warmth, indecisive -- what was that?
He enjoyed watching her battle, straining against the elements, bracing broad hips, firm thighs apart, lifting up on tip-toes, tightened calf muscles stabilizing her frame while she worked. As sheets thrashed around her, their ends snapping in the bitter wind, His need to possess her surged, manifesting in His rock-hard dick. When the halter ripped away, her belly button seized His attention -- from the window, the elliptical concave was drawing Him closer.
He slipped out the screen door -- the wind slammed it shut. She didn't realize He was there -- she certainly couldn't anticipate what He had in mind.
She abandoned the basket, leaving its damp contents. Only for a second, she fretted that they would wrinkle, or worse, mildew. The ground was hard and cold beneath her feet as she ran for the back porch, thinking about the warm kitchen and coffee. It was too damn cold outside -- why did she wear that halter anyway?
"Did you forget something, slut?"
She froze on the doorstep, arm mid-air reaching for the door. She hesitated too long -- He yanked the tousled ponytail, pulling her backward until she stumbled to the ground in front of Him. "P-p-please, it hurts!" she cried out, one hand instinctively stretching defensively to pull away the strong arm gripping her hair. He jerked up once, watching her wince, face contorted in panic.
He slapped her with the back of His right hand, gripping her hair with His left. Tears welling in her eyes, a red mark appeared on her cheek.
"Take off the jeans, you fucking bitch." He was not in the mood to coddle her.
She didn't look into His face -- His voice both intimidated and electrified her. He noticed this, slapped her again. "LOOK AT ME!" He bellowed. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"Yes, Sir," she answered meekly, bending knees to stand, sliding off the jeans -- He kicked her legs out from under her, knocking her backward to the ground.
"Did I tell you to stand?" He glared down at her. She was naked except for pink bikini panties that fit low on hips, high on thighs. She scrambled away from the crumpled denim at her ankles, quickly replying "no, Sir."
